The Next Prank
Tommy threw an inflatable inner tube and rope into the boot of the Holden, on top of the crate. The bottles clattered together. It was Saturday. We had all finished work for the morning and were heading up the back of Lake Tekapo, to the canals, to camp out.
‘What’s that for,’ asked Jed, ‘you got haemorrhoids?’
‘You’re the only pain in arse,’ Tommy said, and they both laughed. ‘I’ve got a party trick to show you,’ Tommy went on.
He was always full of mischief, Tommy. A practical joker. The last time we headed away he had filled beer bottles with a mix of malt vinegar and coke. Jed and I had taken a long swig—we’d been for a tramp around Peel Forest and were looking forward to a cold one. I had thought the smell was a bit off, but I was as dry as and downed it, and then it all came back up.
Jed didn’t take it so well. He threw the bottle against a pine tree. It smashed to pieces.
‘Steady on mate, he’s just pulling our leg,’ I said.
Jed nodded, and put his hands on his hips, as if to stop himself putting them around Tommy’s neck.
‘I just wanted a bloody beer.’
Tommy, sheepish, went back to the boot and pulled out the crate of actual beer. He had even put ice packs around it to try and get a chill on it.
Jed smelt the beer first before taking a swig. He said, ‘Still got that bloody vinegar taste in my mouth, you bastard,’ but good natured like, the edge in his voice gone.
‘You don’t have to be a funny bastard every day—take a day off,’ I’d said, and they both laughed. Tommy couldn’t help but be a funny bastard, he was always looking for the next prank.
Once you get over Burkes Pass the whole landscape opens up. There’s just so much space. You’d think such open and dry land would feel hostile, like it’s exposed the futility of your best attempts to green it, but not here. Instead, it makes the sky seem bluer. The caps of snow whiter.
‘Would you look at that,’ says Jed, all dreamy like.
‘I’d say.’
‘It’s a beaut part of the country, alright,’ says Tommy, who is sitting in the back alongside the sleeping bags. He’s originally from the North Island. Moved down here when he was twelve. We first met at Intermediate. We both wore our grey shorts a fraction shorter than was decent. He had the legs for it, while my legs looked like sausages escaping their casings. Fatty Matty, the kids called me.
‘Reminds me of the Desert Road,’ Tommy says.
I nod, though I couldn’t say either way—I’d never seen it.
‘I remember driving through there once at night, and seeing the head torches from the territorials. Practicing war,’ Tommy continued.
‘Dole bludgers in uniform,’ says Jed.
‘You got that right, mate.’
‘I haven’t been to Tekapo since I came with my old man, years ago,’ adds Jed, turning to me. ‘Remember when he bought that old hearse?’
‘Chevy, wasn’t it? Teal?’ I glance at him briefly.
‘That’s the one. Plenty of room in the back.’
Jed’s father wasn’t in the death business, just liked a good car. It was cheap for a V8. He had seats put in the back. Could take eight people, all up.
‘What did he do with it,’ I ask.
‘Sold it to some fella up North. It was too expensive to run.’ Jed turns and looks out at the land. ‘When we came up here, all the lupins were out.’
‘Would you look at that,’ says Jed as we come down the hill into Tekapo—the lake spread out to the right of us. The peaks up the other end of the lake snow-capped.
‘It’s just so blue,’ says Tommy, shifting himself to look out between the front seats.
‘You can say that again,’ says Jed.
‘It’s just so blue,’ he repeats.
‘Christ, it’s going to be a long weekend with this live wire,’ says Jed.
Tommy laughs and sits back in his seat.
The canals are just over the hill out of town. You hang a left and go down a shingle road.
I park up by the substation. Pop the boot.
The canal is a thick baby-blue line cut through dry land.
Tommy gets out of the car and grabs the inner tube. He stands looking down the canal. ‘This will be perfect,’ he says, his smile wide.
‘What are you up to?’ I look down the road. There’s an angler standing on the bank.
‘We may have to wait for the gentleman angler to move,’ says Tommy.
‘What on earth for?’ asks Jed.
‘I’m so glad you asked.’
‘Christ, I wished I hadn’t,’ says Jed. I can see he’s getting annoyed with Tommy’s eagerness, and the cunning written all over his face.
‘What I am proposing, gentlemen, is jet skiing, with biscuit,’ Tommy holds the tyre inner aloft.
‘We’ve got no jet boat, Einstein,’ says Jed, as if glad to have easily quashed Tommy’s ambitions.
‘No, but we have a car, and a rope, and a road.’ Tommy smiles so broadly, it’s a wonder it doesn’t fall off his face. ‘And look, the angler is packing up.’
‘You’re a mad bugger,’ I say.
‘Too right,’ adds Jed.
‘It’ll be fun, come on, I’ll go first.’
It is hot and still. The sun heading down.
‘Can’t it wait until tomorrow?’ asks Jed.
‘Now’s perfect, before the anglers come back.’
Tommy is pulling off his jeans and t-shirt.
‘Hold your horses, mate, I need to swing the car closer and fix the rope,’ I say.
‘Are you sure this’ll work,’ Jed asks.
‘Course it will, stop being such an old man. A guy at work told me about it—he used to do it all the time when he was a kid.’
I get the car as close to the shoreline as I can. Tommy grabs the rope and ties one end around the tow bar, and the other around the tyre.
‘You’d better tie it bloody well,’ says Jed.
‘Don’t you worry, I was a good Boy Scout.’
Jed shakes his head. ‘You need to make sure you don’t swing too far out, otherwise you’ll slam right into the bank.’
Tommy looks up and winks at Jed, which does nothing to ease the worried expression on his face.
I watch Jed as he looks down the canal, and back to the car.
‘I’d better sit in the back. You won’t be able to see him out of the mirrors,’ Jed says to me.
He’s right. The driver’s side is the furthest away from the water.
Tommy gingerly climbs down the rocks of the bank, the rubber tyre hooked under one arm. He looks so skinny in his jocks, which are a bit loose at the arse end.
‘You need to keep it straight and steady—don’t go mad on the first run,’ Jed looks at me, to make sure I’ve understood.
‘I know, I know.’
Tommy sits on the tyre. He calls out, ‘It’s a bit cold on my arse,’ while laughing his head off.
Jed just shakes his head. He’s perched on the back seat, looking out the back window.
The car tyres skid a bit on the shingle as I take off but then settle down as I roll, until the rope is taut, and starts to drag Tommy along. I can just see him in the passenger side mirror. Rather than holding onto the tyre, he’s got his arms in the air, pointing forward, giving us a hurry up.
I go a little faster, not much, only about 30 kms.
‘That’ll do, eh,’ says Jed. ‘You might want to start slowing down, unless you want to end up in the Pukaki.’
I slow down, gradually, not really sure where the tyre and Tommy will end up once the rope becomes slack. When I come to a stop, Tommy keeps going forward a bit, he waves to me as he sails past the car. He eventually slows and bumps up against the rocks on the bank.
Tommy points back to where we came from. Jed gets out and unties the rope from the tow bar, while I turn the car around.
‘This is the last one, I need a beer,’ says Jed as he gets into the back seat.
The sun is ducking behind the hills. I lean out the window, and look back to Tommy who is laying across the tyre. His arms reaching out into the water, splashing like a toddler in a paddling pool. He leans over to the left, down into the water, as if trying to see the bottom. From here, it looks dense. A mass of solid blue.
The car tyres crunch over the shingle, slowly at first, then I gather speed.
I can see Tommy clearer now in the side mirror. The driver’s side is right by the water. He’s smiling, his arms stuck up like rugby posts holding up against the wind.
The next thing you know the car feels unbalanced, and I can’t right the thing, we’re moving closer to the water.
‘What the hell—’
‘Slow down.’
I try, but the arse end of the car swings towards the water. I hear the flap of loose rubber on the gravel—I look in the side mirror.
‘It’s a bloody blow out,’ I say.
I swing the steering wheel away from the water and slam on the brake.
‘Jesus Christ, remember you’re towing.’
I go to swing back, to correct, but the car goes into a spin, dust flies up around us. I don’t know where we’ll end up. I just hope like hell we won’t end up in the water. When it comes to a stop the chassis still tries to shunt around but the tyres hold firm and it shunts back. The nose of the car juts out over the water. Dust is flying.
We just sit there, stunned.
I look into the side mirror, expecting to see Tommy, but all I can see are the hills and the fading light.
Jed gets out of the car, and heads to the tow bar. The rope is still attached, and he holds it, letting it guide him to Tommy. Out the rear-view mirror I see him veer off towards the canal.
‘Matt, Matt!’ I hear the urgency and strain in Jed’s voice, but I can barely shift myself. I’m still holding onto the steering wheel when he opens the driver’s door and drags me out onto the shingle.
‘Help me find him, you dumb bastard.’
He’s dragging me up to my feet and pulls me along.
‘I can only see the friggin’ tyre.’
I stand on the bank of the canal while Jed runs back and forth along it, frantically scanning for any sign of Tommy. The water flows by as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened. I’m shaking. Jed runs in a three-sixty, in the arc the tyre would’ve travelled if Tommy had held on.
Eventually Jed crouches down beside me, his arms resting over his thighs, catching his breath. ‘I should’ve stopped him, why didn’t I stop him, such a hairbrained friggin’ idea.’
We stand on the bank, hoping this is a joke and Tommy will climb up, and we’ll call him a sick bastard to muck us around like that. But the only thing that rises is the moon. It’s full. The sky is bright with white light. It feels like we’re in a photo negative—like you get in the pack when you develop film. When I was a kid, I’d pull them out and stare at them, searching for something hidden that didn’t appear in the prints. Trust Tommy to find a way to hide in such open country.
Rebecca Styles lives in Wellington. She’s had several short stories published in New Zealand journals and anthologies, such as ReadingRoom and Landfall.